


Nothing But Your Boots

by afterbaedeker



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Minor Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-17 01:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12354315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterbaedeker/pseuds/afterbaedeker
Summary: Sansa Stark is a Grand Ole Opry performing, Grammy award winning, Nashville darling. Petyr Baelish runs the Mockingbird record label and the more interesting sections of Nashville. This is the story of the night they met and the mornings after.A creepyship romance told through a series of connected drabbles.





	1. Then I met you Saturday Night

****

**(1)**

Sansa was led through the ballroom by one of the Braavosi record label executives who demonstrated a particular skill for facilitating the taking of “selfies”, and the swapping of sufficient small talk, before gliding effortlessly away. Without his assistance Sansa would still be stuck in an exchange of courtesies with the first admirer to greet her.

“Ah, no introductions needed here.”

Turning at the executive’s voice, Petyr Baelish’s bored expression shifted to interest when he recognised the young woman before him.

He gave a half bow, one hand coming to rest upon his heart, the other slipping behind his back.

****

**(2)**

“Sansa Stark.”

In retrospect it seemed foolish that Sansa had never imagined meeting him. He just didn’t seem real to her: he was a story her parents seldom told, a collection of sad songs about a lovesick Romeo that still played on classic country radio and kept the story of those heartbreaking Tully girls young, long after they had grown.

But here he was, poured into a suit that was a green so dark it could pass for night. Sansa gazed upon mossy stones beneath a still pond, his eyes glittering clear, clear green. 

She could drown in his gaze.

****

**(3)**

He was no longer confined to song. He was undeniably real; his attention devouring like the big bad wolf from Old Nan’s fairytales.

“Mr Baelish.”

“Petyr, please.” 

Her voice caught in her throat. Rather than speak she blushed as he raised her knuckles to his kiss, and did her very best to smile.

She ran through her mantra: she was an Opry performing, Grammy award winning, Nashville darling. She was Sansa _fucking_ Stark. She was the man-eater the tabloids applauded and lampooned in equal measure. 

She would not be reduced to thigh quivering indecision by handsome men. Seriously _off-limit_ men. 

****

**(4)**

She repeated her mantra as she demurely sipped her champagne. Eyes downcast, she registered his boots. Black leather, bespoke, cowboy boots. They looked butter soft, and she wanted nothing more than to feel them slide against her calves.

It seemed her Braavosi minder had abandoned her to Mr Baelish. _Petyr_. Sansa was momentarily curious that her cloyingly attentive chaperone had vanished. The thought fizzed away faster than the bubbles in her flute as Petyr lowered her hand, leaving her bereft of his touch.

Petyr plucked two fresh glasses from a passing server, who in return took Sansa’s warm, empty flute.

****

**(5)**

Petyr prided himself on preparing for any eventuality. Anticipating artistic temperaments, forecasting commercial gains and losses, responding to evolving audience desires: that was breathing to him.

Being utterly enthralled by a Siren he would happily dash himself upon rocky shores to be near was most assuredly not something he had predicted. 

She was luminous, radiating _je ne sais quoi_. X factor he supposed. Coloured like fire but sculpted like ice, Sansa’s looks alone were captivating (tonight her dress shimmered like mercury, thin strings holding figure skimming material aloft, moving like a river running). But her talent…

“You’ve heard of me.”

****

**(6)**

There was no tone to indicate _what_ Petyr imagined Sansa knew.

“Yes.”

“And the tale behind the songs?”

She took a fortifying swallow of her wine. “Not really.”

“More familiar with my current role, then?”

“You mean roles?” clarified Sansa with a cheeky grin. In quick succession she listed his record label, his artists, his songwriting credits, and his nightclubs as contemporary achievements.

“You have been paying attention.”

“I make it my business to know the competition.”

“Very wise, sweetling.” He leaned a whisper closer. “But I’m not your rival.”

“No?”

His smirk was maddeningly attractive and he knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 cameo: Tycho Nestoris from the Iron Bank of Braavos is the unnamed Braavosi record label executive escorting Sansa at the party.


	2. I tried to runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here the story warrants the rating.

****

**(7)**

Petyr’s breath caught when Sansa took his hand in hers. She gently encircled his wrist, moving half a step closer to him to better read his watch.

“Nearly midnight.” When she looked up she was met with an incendiary stare and an incredulous smirk. 

She blushed prettily in response to his searing consideration, let go of his hand but didn’t step away from his radiating heat. “I should call it a night.”

“Or you could leave with me.” He tone was conversational. Passersby might mistake his words for indifference, but his gaze was a gauntlet being thrown.

“Lead the way.”

****

**(8)**

Sansa couldn’t help but be impressed by Petyr’s deft avoidance of paparazzi as they relocated from party to hotel. Conscious of unseen cameras they presented a picture of decorum until the moment they were alone in Petyr’s hotel room.

She pulled him against the door, her fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket leading him willingly to press into her.

Petyr ran his hands up the sides of Sansa’s sequined dress. The discs were sharp, the intricate beading – so beautiful to behold – was rough beneath his fingers. It felt true. Beauty was dangerous, and it comforted Petyr to touch truth. 

****

**(9)**

She groaned into his kiss. Her arms looped easily about his neck, her fingers raking through his close-cropped hair, enjoying the way he deepened the kiss when she increased the pressure against his scalp.

Pewter wings of a mockingbird buckle pressed into her groin; she bucked to shift the sigil to where she ached most. Sansa sighed. The friction of metal upon sequin upon silk was a combination Sansa would file away for future reference: she had never been wetter.

Petyr broke their kiss to command Sansa’s gaze. She ground against him, rubbing, rubbing, until she crackled with electric release.

****

**(10)**

Petyr had never witnessed anything as wondrous as the woman in his arms looking into his eyes while she used his body to spectacularly get herself off. He encouraged her with tiny nods, wanton smirks, and hissed _yeses_. He had no doubt his irises were as lust blown as hers: black mirrors reflecting desire. He wanted desperately to take the lip that was caught between her teeth, to suck until it bloomed mauve under his attention, but he couldn’t bear to miss a second of her undoing.

When she spasmed against him, he spared no time in reclaiming her mouth.

****

**(11)**

Petyr Baelish was an excellent kisser. In Sansa’s experience (and she had collected a considerable sample size of kisses in her twenty-five years) his technique was perfect. He angled his head just so, his lips were moist but not wet, he transitioned from firm, pressed lips, to open mouthed kisses, and he knew exactly what he was doing when his tongue found the sensitive roof of her mouth. All that and he tasted of _mint_ , too.

Sansa wondered if it was possible to orgasm from his kisses alone. She’d never felt anything like what Petyr was making her feel now.

****

**(12)**

Petyr was torn. Part of him could stand in the doorway and kiss Sansa until he ran out of breath. Part of him wanted to drop to his knees and lap at the release she had just enjoyed; make her squirm under his attentive mouth. Another part would happily divest her of underwear, hike up the hem of her dress, shove aside his clothes until his cock was free and take her against the door. His overwhelming desire was to take Sansa to bed, take his time removing their clothes, and longer still coupling until they were both completely fucked. 


	3. Sunday morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night's activities continue into Sunday morning.

****

**(13)**

The clock blinked 01:13 in electric white.

Petyr led Sansa into the bedroom, drawing the sheer curtain closed, and partially closing the heavier drapes, allowing only moonlight inside. 

His hands rubbed up and down her bare arms.

“Is there a zip?”

Sansa shook her head. “Just lift it off.” She raised her arms. Petyr required no further encouragement to take hold of the hem and gently peel it up and over and off her. He held her dress, inside out, for a dumbstruck moment, captivated by the sight of her in black silk knickers, killer silver stilettos, and nothing else. 

****

**(14)**

When blood and reason returned to his head he gently placed her dress over the back of an armchair.

He sensed her move before he felt her hands on his shoulders, her bare chest pressed briefly against his back. She reached around, fingers finding the lapels of his jacket for a second time, and pared back the sleeves with firm, sure movements, until the jacket gave way with a tug. Sansa shook the garment out then placed it over her dress.

With a hand at her hip, Petyr turned so they were face-to-face allowing Sansa to nip a quick kiss.

****

**(15)**

Sansa unknotted his tie, letting the silk hang loose around his neck. She smiled at her handiwork: two verdant vertical stripes against crisp white. She placed a kiss beneath his jaw and felt the first faint bristle of a scratch. He sighed. Her fingers made quick work of the top button of his shirt, and the next, her mouth trailing soft kisses at each new exposed expanse of skin.

Petyr allowed two kisses to his neck before guiding her mouth back to his. His kiss occupied her thoroughly, her fingers flying blindingly down his torso, slipping button after button free.

****

**(16)**

Sansa’s hands roamed beneath his open shirt, travelling his torso, firmly mapping the lean range of his chest. She brushed her hands up then brought his shirt down as her hands descended his back.

Scar tissue ran from nipple to navel. She bent to kiss the mark left by the whip’s lash.

“Please don’t.” It caught him by surprise that her attention bothered him. 

It was on the tip of her tongue to apologise (a habit she was slowly breaking), quickly followed by a need to know if she had hurt him. She tamped down both inclinations. “Okay.” 

****

**(17)**

Petyr was unnerved to be thankful for her understanding. His smirk almost managed to mask his discomfit.

He flicked his cuffs loose. Shirt and tie were thrown toward their other liberated garments. 

Petyr guided Sansa backwards, four dance like steps, to the edge of the bed. He breathed against her ear, “Sit.” 

Eyes locked, Petyr lowered himself to his knees. He lifted first one of Sansa’s shapely legs, then the other, to dangle over his shoulders. Sansa blushed crimson from cheek to chest when she realised Petyr’s intent. 

Hands on her hips, he squeezed. “Lift up sweetling.”

She gladly complied.

****

**(18)**

Sansa could not have looked more debauched if she tried.

Knickers lowered enough to expose her sex to Petyr’s hungry gaze, the swatch of silk rested between hip and knee, pulled taut by thighs.

Without further warning Petyr nestled at the apex of her comely legs and hummed a pretty tune. His clever mouth coaxed sinful groans from Sansa. His tongue probed, his nose nudged, and his fingers fiddled, all in common purpose.

Her vision blurred and her panting grew louder as she climbed and climbed then peaked. 

Gingerly she raised herself onto her elbows.

“Let me return the favour.”


	4. Pull you by the belt

****

**(19)**

Sansa was still buzzing, giddy and punch-drunk from her orgasm. With loose limbs she let her legs fall and arms stretch toward Petyr until she could card her fingers through his hair.

She beckoned him to her, and he gladly held himself higher (though still on his knees) so she could taste the evidence of her arousal. She hummed her appreciation at the _tang_ that now flavoured their kisses, causing Petyr to groan in reply.

Pulling away, ever so slightly, Sansa extended one dainty foot, and tapped it against Petyr’s thigh. He needed no further prompting to remove her stilettos.

****

**(20)**

Sansa rolled her knickers down her thighs then kicked them carelessly across the floor.

She sat as commandingly as a queen on the edge of the hotel bed, wearing nothing but a blush and a smile.

“Stand.”

Unsteadily, Petyr rose. Sansa pulled him by the belt, positioning him squarely before her. She deftly unhooked his buckle, loosened the tongue through belt loops as easily as she encouraged Petyr’s kisses, and unbuttoned his fly.

Hooking thumbs between outer and underwear, she lowered his trousers while leaving his briefs in place. Expensive material gathered, and crinkled below his knees, atop his boots.

****

**(21)**

Her breath was hot as she peppered open-mouthed kisses against his cotton-covered cock. The crown of his cock, bejewelled with a pearl of pre-cum, prodded the wide waistband; his boxer-briefs leaving very little to the imagination as the black material, now damp from Sansa’s attentions, clung to the outline of his erection.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” hissed Petyr. His hands twitched dumbly by his sides, itching to do something, _anything_ to ease the flames of his desire: take her head and hold her still, take his cock in hand until he spilled. As a compromise he opted for jerking down his briefs. 

****

**(22)**

Petyr sighed in anticipation of the moment Sansa would place her curious mouth on his bare skin.

Blessedly, the wait was brief.

She nuzzled at flesh pulled taut, focussing on the underside of his cock, taking her time dragging her tongue up its length. Hesitation abandoned, Petyr threaded his hands through Sansa’s hair. She rewarded his gentle touch with an equally soft kiss upon the head of his cock, smearing the gathered fluid upon her smile. 

She looked up at Petyr, mesmerised by the dark pitch of his eyes, and licked her lips. 

She shivered with the power she wielded.

****

**(23)**

With a wicked grin, Sansa returned her attention to the insistent cock before her. Petyr may have been able to restrain himself from voicing his desires, but his body lacked the same discipline. His cock made its interest very clear: twitching, bobbing, throbbing, and leaking.

Sansa swirled her tongue around the head of Petyr’s cock, wetting it entirely before engulfing it, sliding it further into the cavern of her mouth, carefully shielding the sensitive sheath of his cock from her teeth, and swallowing.

Her clever hands held the base of his erection, while she sucked the rest of his length. 

****

**(24)**

Sansa set a teasing rhythm, bobbing, swallowing and sucking vigorously for short surges, before slowing her movements, and gentling her touch. Petyr’s pulse-racing torment continued until the tip of his cock touched the back of Sansa’s throat.

Rationally, Petyr understood what was happening, watched enthralled as Sansa wrapped her lips around him and devoured him whole, and knew the inevitable, enjoyable, consequences of what he was witnessing.

Despite this, he still shouted in surprise when he came, his release both sudden and strong. Sansa did her best to swallow each spurt, but some spilled down her chin despite her care.


	5. I woke up fucked up with you right next to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Cat Stevens sang, "Morning has broken."

**(25)**

Gauzy sunlight filtered into the room. Petyr stirred awake, snatches of the evening before (and more notably the pre-dawn hours of today) replaying in his mind.

Sansa wiping away his seed from her chin with the back of her hand, kissing him soundly, sauntering to the ensuite as naked as her nameday.

Him, sitting on the bed, completely spent, wrestling with his boots and very glad Sansa wasn’t there to witness his struggle. 

Sansa returning from the bathroom, looking like a debauched goddess, hair mussed and lips swollen with kisses.

Him no doubt looking utterly _fuckstruck_. How could he not?

**(26)**

She crawled over him, tangling with him atop the bedcovers. They lay together, kissing idly, touching, exploring, learning each other’s bodies. The urgency of their earlier couplings, having burned bright and hot now glowed warm. The intense desire to _be_ to _have_ to _hold_ remained despite their release.

He learned her reaction to having her nipples pinched (most favourable).

She learned how to elicit a range of his gasps; low exhale (cupping his balls), quick breaths (the pressure of a single fingernail running the seam of his sac), wet inhale (playing with his frenulum).

They learned over and over again.

**(27)**

Sansa shivered against Petyr’s chest.

“Cold?” 

She nodded. Petyr rubbed the gooseflesh that now pebbled her arms and chest. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Let’s get under the covers.”

With minor struggle, they pulled the sheets free of their tight confines and wriggled into the luxurious cotton cocoon (Sansa fleetingly wondered what the thread count was).

“Is it okay if we cuddle?”

The question caught Petyr by surprise. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” She pressed a light kiss to his lips before settling into his embrace.

Petyr held Sansa all the while cursing the callowness of her past lovers.

**(28)**

The urge to ask Sansa about the men who didn’t stay the night – or worse yet, invited _her_ to leave – bubbled within him. It was perverse, but he desperately wanted to unspool the threads of her romantic past. Perhaps then, armed with that knowledge, he could stitch together a romance worthy of her.

His patient pondering was rewarded with Sansa’s gentle snores. Far sooner than Petyr could have imagined Sansa was fast asleep. He envied, but did not begrudge her the rhythmic regularity with which she slept, her soft breaths an unexpected balm that lulled him to his own rest.

**(29)**

Shaking off vestiges of sleep, acknowledging the tender fleshed reality sharing his bed, Petyr thanked gods he had all but forgotten for his good fortune.

It was rare indeed that reality exceeded Petyr’s exacting expectations, and he was happy to count this moment as one that surpassed even his wildest imaginings.

_There._ What he wouldn’t give to hold this moment, remember, relive, cherish it, for the rest of his days. Sansa was completely unaware how exquisite she was. Flame red hair fanned out across pillows, blush tinged cheeks and chest, blunt teeth burrowing into the plump flesh of her lip.

**(30)**

“I can hear you thinking,” Sansa lightly admonished, voice sleep slurred.

“Is that right.” He turned onto his side, the better to admire her sleep creased face. “What thoughts of mine did you hear?” 

A smile teased her lips. “Oh, that’d be telling.” 

He nuzzled closer, nose brushing hers, breath ghosting across her mouth. “I’d quite like you to tell.”

She lazily opened her eyes, slowly drinking in the sight of him. She closed the distance between their mouths, stealing a tender kiss. Sansa huffed a laugh. “How do you still taste so minty?”

Smirking, he replied, “That’d be telling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot take credit for the term “fuckstruck”, that honour belongs to Jane Espenson. Check out this [note](http://corseque.tumblr.com/image/30276464904) from the screenplay for Skin Deep (aka the episode that launched a thousand Rumbelle shippers in the Once Upon A Time fandom) for _fuckstruck_ in context.


	6. had a flight booked to japan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's dilemma:  
> Option A: promotional work with Loras in Japan  
> Option B: unparalleled passion with Petyr in Nashville
> 
> What's a jet setting international pop star to choose?

**(31)**

She leaned across his sweat slick torso, breasts sensitive as they brushed over his chest, stretching long limbs to reach her phone on the bedside table.

Rolling into Petyr’s side, she held her phone propped on his flank, scrolling through her many unread messages. His hand trailed the length of her spine as she read, continuing south of the notch of her tailbone, to slide one, then two fingers into her tender quim.

Between quickening breaths she panted, “I’m due at the airport at noon.”

Clever, questing fingers curled inside Sansa, continuing their exploration. She hummed her thorough approval.

“Cancel.”

**(32)**

Sansa laughed. “I couldn’t do that to Loras.”

Petyr dipped his head to nip at the flesh behind the shell of her ear. Confirming his recent discovery, his action eliciting a sinful groan from Sansa that he would happily be the source of for as long as she permitted. This morning. Tomorrow. Every day that followed.

Breath hot, short whiskers sharp against her cheek, he removed his hand. “He’ll forgive you.” 

She turned around. “Only in exchange for gossip.” She raked hungry eyes down his lean torso. “ _Detailed_ gossip.”

“A price I’m willing to pay.”

Sansa grinned. “I’ll call him.”

**(33)**

Loras answered on the third ring.

“Morning!” Sansa’s voice was daybreak bright. “I didn’t wake you did I?” A small frown ghosted across her forehead. “Good, good.” She relaxed against Petyr’s chest as she settled into the conversation.

While Sansa peddled pretty excuses to Renly – and offered too generous concessions for missing his Asia-Pacific press tour – Petyr walked his fingers down her side, over her thigh, and threaded through her damp curls. With maddeningly slow circles he teased her clit until she ended the call.

“Okay, bye!”

Sansa levelled a look at Petyr over her shoulder. “You don’t play fair.”

**(34)**

“No, I don’t.”

Petyr replaced his fingers with his cock. Sansa squeaked (how she wished her response was dignified, _ladylike_ ). He groaned low and long as he edged into Sansa from behind, his hands now free to explore her front as he brought her flush against him. 

She silhouetted his movements: when his thigh lifted to better thrust into her, so did hers; when he curved into a loose ‘C’, she accommodated by shaping herself to his new position.

Petyr wished there was a mirrored surface in the bedroom so he could see how perfectly he and Sansa fit together.

**///** **\\\\\** **///** **\\\\\** **///** **\\\\\**

**(35)**

Loras wandered into his kitchen, placed his phone on the immaculate counter, before making his way to Renly by the stovetop.

“Guess who’s blowing off Japan?” teased Loras, bumping hips with his lover.

Renly turned away from the percolating coffee, eyebrows arched, to read Loras’ face. “Sansa?” Loras’ grin confirmed the guess. “No! Tell me that’s not all she’s blowing.”

“Oh, there’s a man,” Loras assured.

“Good for her. Do we know _who_?”

“Not yet,” Loras grumbled, reaching inside Renly’s jeans to steal his phone. “Yours is _right_ there.” Renly’s complaint was half-hearted.

“You love it.”

Renly conceded the point.

**(36)**

While Renly took care of the coffee, Loras scrolled through Sansa’s social accounts cruising the galleries collecting candid photos from last night’s industry event. Sansa’s presence was carefully curated; artfully snapped with every artist from her label, posed with the rival record executives of note, and with her fans who lined the outside of the event venue, gleefully holding handmade signs aloft proclaiming their love in careful texta strokes and the liberal application of glitter.

“Nothing caught on camera,” reported Loras as he returned Renly’s phone to its snug pocket. “That’s gotta be a first.”

“Our little songbird is learning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, she chose B!
> 
> _Nothing But Your Boots_ is the result of the lyric about Japan getting stuck in my head. So glad to have reached this lyric in the drabble series.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter headings taken from Kesha's _[Boots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CHnO4Jrpho)_


End file.
